


(Your) Beast of Burden

by myrtlewilson



Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (I live in that tag), (the humans are the real monsters), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geraskier Week, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Prompt: Monster Hunt, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:55:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22741351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrtlewilson/pseuds/myrtlewilson
Summary: If these men want a monster to hunt, for what they did to Jaskier, Geralt will give them one.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633645
Comments: 64
Kudos: 1022





	(Your) Beast of Burden

**Author's Note:**

> Funnily enough, this is not what I outlined for the Day Two prompt of "Monster Hunt" but suddenly I found myself with almost 4k words and a kinda satisfied feeling that I'd addressed the prompt enough so *bangs pots* geraskiers, come and get y'all's juice

Not all monsters had fangs and claws.

Geralt knew this because he lived this. Knew this because just like it had been instilled in him to know the difference between a ghoul and an al-ghoul, to know the ingredients to Cat and be able to brew it in his sleep or blindfolded – he knew monsters were manipulative. And, unexpected.

They can wear faces that look friendly, say words that draw unsuspecting victims near. They can strike, hard and fast, going in for the kill more vicious than any harpy and with all the bloodlust of a striga.

They can look human – can  _ be  _ humans.

For all his years on the Continent, Geralt had never understood humanity, despite, at one point, technically being born a part of it. Animals, monsters – all forms of beast, really – they at least had a code: They ate when they needed to eat, and they slept when they needed to sleep. They fucked to continue their species. Eventually, they died. The cycle repeated.

But humans?

They were something  _ sinister _ .

Because for all the pain a giant could cause by ripping the limbs off a man, one by one, in its endeavor to eat him – the beast didn’t do it out of a sense of wanting to prolong his prey’s suffering. It acted that way because it didn’t know better. It acted that way because it wanted to eat; this was one of the many ways it knew how.

Man, however, would tear the limbs off a prisoner of war to make a statement. Man would set fire to an orphanage and lock the door, just because the children inside didn’t belong to the ‘right’ faction. Man would send a witcher out on a hunt to rid their local graveyard of a poltergeist and thank him by –

“ _ Ow,  _ you brute!” Jaskier’s voice sounded like he’d gargled glass. “I know it’s not in your nature, but if you’d be so kind as to be  _ gentle _ ...”

Geralt jolted from his thoughts when he realized he’d been pressing the cleaning rag so hard on Jaskier’s lip that it had inadvertently split open again. He cursed softly.

“Rest your voice,” said Geralt, in lieu of an apology.

The bard had never looked quite so bad as he did tonight: both eyes blackened, his bottom lip torn, boot prints stamped across his spine and stomach. It was evident what had happened here, even with Jaskier trying to explain it through hisses and whimpers – that almost an hour after Geralt had taken his contract, a gang of men descended upon him.

They had thought the witcher swindled them, took their coin and ran for the hills. And even with Jaskier trying his best to sway the crowd, they didn’t want fine words and praises – they wanted a fight. They wanted pain. And they would take what they felt owed.

The group had beat Jaskier bloody, took  _ his  _ coin and left him in the stables coated in ale, straw, and his own vomit because it was the next best thing to getting the jump on a witcher; disenfranchised men who saw a frail peacock in the bard, and thought that if they couldn’t run his inhuman companion out of town – for need of his services – they’d simply go about thrashing Jaskier.

And for what reason, other than prejudice? To make a statement on how much they hated mutants? Geralt did them a favor, ridding them of their specter, and the town repaid him with a room in the stables and almost breaking his lover’s bones.

When he’d returned, the alderman handed Geralt his reward like he thought the witcher might smite him where he stood — and rightfully so. Because when he’d come back to the inn, expecting to find Jaskier doing his usual song routine for extra funds, and found nothing, he’d grown suspicious.

And when a mousy-looking barmaid pulled him aside, urging him to check on his horse, Geralt had nearly split the door in half with the strength of which he’d slammed it. He’d thought she was kicking him out, cheating him of his money. It wouldn’t have been the first time. In reality, she’d been trying to do him a courtesy by letting him know Jaskier was laying dazed in shit, bleeding out on the brickwork. 

It was only the hoarse cry of “ _ don’t _ ” which kept Geralt here, which made him tend to Jaskier first before beating the bastards with everything he had.

His blood, still, boiled for a fight. 

Geralt dipped his middle finger back in the lemon scented salve and set about smearing it feather-light across the bruising around Jaskier’s eyes. He wasn’t sure if the poor lighting from the single lamp in their shelter made the bard’s injuries better or worse looking. He wasn’t sure if it mattered, even, because it still meant Jaskier was injured all the same.

The bard hissed again as Geralt put just a touch too much pressure near the cut across his nose, no doubt ripped open by a ring-handed punch across soft flesh. The witcher paused to still his breath, his emotions, his heart. Whatever look crossed his face then must have been severe, for Jaskier – gentle, but  _ stupid _ with love – reached out to Geralt as if to comfort  _ him _ .

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he rasped, eyes bright with unshed tears which were too proud to fall. “I’ll be better come morning. You’ll see. Not the worst I’ve faced, not by half.”

Geralt pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead, if only to stop him from saying what he felt: That the bard should leave come morning. That he should leave Geralt behind and blame him for all the ill which had befallen them tonight. That they should never meet, never touch, again because for as safe as Jaskier claimed to be under Geralt’s gaze, he was twice as safe when far away and out of sight.

Jaskier’s hold on Geralt’s forearm tightened, like his grip was a kiss in return. His knuckles were split, Geralt noted, meaning he’d at least gotten a good shot or two in before...  _ before _ – 

Geralt closed his eyes, a strange mix of heartbroken and proud. With his nose at Jaskier’s fringe, he inhaled, and with it came the smell of sweat and blood and musk. Everything Jaskier usually smelt like, but just slightly  _ wrong _ . Still, it was enough to keep Geralt present. Grounded.

“Even if you don’t tell me,” the witcher said, eventually, “I could still find them.”

Jaskier breathed out a laugh. “And I will yell at you, all the same.”

This, here, was something Geralt could never understand. For as many times as the world had chewed on Jaskier and spit him out again – for as many times as Geralt was guilty of doing the same thing – he always tried to take the road less violent. If it weren’t for the fact Geralt was painfully aware of how fragile, how mortal, Jaskier was, he might have questioned the bard’s humanity.

Because for someone so human to be so loving, so empathetic and un-monstrous... To ask for nothing in return, to not seek rightful vengeance from being wronged– 

“Why do you protect them?” Geralt was not known for speaking the first thing that came to mind, but in this instance, he couldn’t help himself. “After they beat you... After they cursed you…,” 

Jaskier just stared at him, like a mother trying to find a way to explain death to a young child. He drew Geralt close, even closer than they were, so that all the witcher could see was Jaskier and all Geralt could feel was the warmth of the bard’s body.

“You have the power, yes, the ability –  _ certainly _ – to hunt them down if you wished. I couldn’t stand in your way if, well... I honestly don’t think I’m capable of standing at all, currently. But even  _ if  _ I could, I couldn’t stop you. But... I’d try.”

Jaskier breathed, and Geralt listened to the steady, courageous thumping of his lover’s heart.

“I’d try because they can bend my fingers and break my bones and call me the witcher’s  _ whore _ all they please. I don’t care. Don’t you look at me like that! I  _ don’t _ . I don’t care because at the end of the day my bruises will fade and my bones will mend and I will forget about their words, just like they’ll forget about a silly sort of man like me.”

Jaskier pressed a thumb over Geralt’s lips, stopping him from protesting the bard’s self-deprecation. 

“But if you hurt them,” he said, slow, “if you got your revenge for what they did – they’d talk. They’d gossip –  _ lie _ . They’d spin a tale of how you cut ten men down, but conveniently leave out the part that you did it for love. That you did it for your–,” then he stopped himself, cheeks pinkening, to clear his throat. “Respect doesn’t make history. I told you that when we first met. Love very seldom does, either, and only if it’s of a specific kind, as wretched as that may seem.

“These were men who were angry: at their circumstances, at the world, at the gods. They wanted something, someone to take it out on. They were looking to hunt a monster, Geralt,” Jaskier’s honey-sweet voice was straining, “and I will not let that monster be you. Not again.”

Were he capable of crying, Geralt thinks he might have. Nowhere in his life, not one time or single moment, had anyone shown him a compassion like this. Perhaps his birth mother, at one point, but she was long gone from him. And maybe the matronly Nenneke, from his time at the temple, but she, too, was unlike most humans. She was something holier.

But this man sat before Geralt, haloed by barn-lighting, smelling like a bar? While Geralt had stayed in a house of God for awhile, in an attempt to heal his own wounds, this might have been the closest thing the witcher felt to divinity and destiny in a long time. Possibly ever.

“Don’t be cross with me, dearest,” Jaskier continued, mistaking Geralt’s love-struck expression for anger, “but when it comes between choosing you and me, I would choose you every ti–,”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. Geralt was upon him, hands on both sides of Jaskier’s face, kissing him like the warmth of the bard’s mouth supplied the very air Geralt breathed. Like if he didn’t kiss Jaskier then, with everything he had, he’d die.

And for his own part, Jaskier gave as good as he got, teeth nipping and pulling at Geralt’s lower lip, forcing his mouth open so a tongue could worm inside. The bard moaned, a gravel tone that shot straight to Geralt’s cock.

This thing between them, while it wasn’t new, it was still fragile. What had started as a way to blow off steam during cold forest nights had blossomed into something more. Something real. Tonight was proof of that.

They only parted when the witcher tasted an iron tang of blood in his mouth. Jaskier’s lip had split open yet again in the commotion of emotion. The dazed and flushed look the bard was sporting only made Geralt feel a little sorry about it, rather than overwhelmingly so.

“You’re a fool,” Geralt grumbled, licking the blood away, “an absolute fool.”

“ _ Your _ fool.” Jaskier, rightfully, sounded smug. He went to pitch forward into the witcher’s arms to stand, but stopped with a hiss — this time of pain and not pleasure. 

One of his ankles, which Jaskier had twisted in his haste to try and get away, wasn’t strong enough to put pressure on. He looked up at Geralt through thick lashes, mockingly bashful. 

“Your fool could, however, use a little help with getting settled for bed,” he said. “If you’d be so kind?”

Kind, Geralt could manage for someone like Jaskier. In return for what Jaskier managed for him? This was nothing.

He scooped the bard into his arms, like a babe, mindful of the speckled bruising which painted Jaskier’s body. It was only a few steps to their bedrolls, bracketed by hay insulation on one side and the wall of Roach’s stall on the other. 

Settling Jaskier into their nest of belongings, Geralt crowded him into the corner where it would be warmest and safe. No one would touch Jaskier again tonight. Not without finding Geralt first.

“Sleep,” said the witcher, when he’d noticed Jaskier’s curious eyes on him, “I will keep watch.”

“It’s been a long day for you, too, Geralt.” 

Jaskier’s statement could have been more effective if a yawn hadn’t cut it in the middle. Instead, his head lolled while his mouth molded into a pout.

“You need sleep,” he insisted. 

Geralt reached over in reply and brushed the hair out of Jaskier’s face. He kept his palm, a heavy mask, over the bard’s eyes until his breathing evened out. No  _ witchering _ required, just the steady weight and security Geralt offered; and it worked every time on Jaskier, without fail.

_ Rest now, lark _ , Geralt thought, turning his attention to the inn. The moon was now high in the sky, yet one bedroom light still shone brightly, far brighter than needed for lovers in a midnight tryst.  _ I would rather suffer a thousand years of names and misfortunes than see you hurt again. _

—

Sometime later in the night, or really early morning if the pink-orange of the sky had anything to say of it, Geralt awoke to footsteps. They were trepid but heavy — the sound of men looking to evoke surprise.

The witcher opened his eyes, but only barely.

Jaskier was still lost to the world, snoring a soft squeak through his damaged nose as he lay cradled in the palm of the stall’s loose hay. In his less injured hand, he clutched a small, stout dagger. Geralt had gifted him not long into their travels for nights such as these.

_ Smart _ , though the witcher. 

The footfall grew nearer and Geralt shut his eyes again to focus. By the sound of their rabbit-hearts and stink of their bodies, there were three of them. But even without his enhanced senses, they spoke in loud enough whispers that even the deaf could hear them.

“We sure this’a smart idea?”

“You know of any other way to get rid’a witcher? We’d doin’ —,”

“ _ Shush _ ! Idiots! You’ll wake’em up!”

He opened his eyes to look upon Jaskier, who still hadn’t stirred. With how badly they — possibly these three, though definitely friends of theirs — beat him, Geralt wasn’t surprised. He was more impressed with how long and how well the bard was talking the night before, despite his pupils being blown wide like he was drunk. 

The men tiptoed closet and Geralt sat up, positioning himself between Jaskier and the intruders.

_ These are the monsters _ , he reminded himself, Jaskier’s words ringing in his head,  _ not me _ .

It was clear they weren’t expecting the witcher to be awake, nor for him to stare them down with such a ferocious look, judging by their cries of alarm. One was armed with a sickle, the other two hammers which looked like they belonged in a smithing set. 

“Quiet,” Geralt rumbled, “or you’ll wake him.”

Before any of them could speak, he waved the sign of  _ Axii _ , stunning all into a stupor. One by one their mouths snapped shut. 

“And put down your weapons.”

They did, with a clatter. 

Geralt rose to his feet. He towered these men, boys really, in both muscle and height. Even if he were to fight them unarmed and one handed, it still wouldn’t be fair.

He wondered if they thought it was a fair fight when they’d cornered and beat Jaskier. Geralt grit his teeth.

_ When it comes between you and me, I would choose you every time. _

If Jaskier would choose Geralt, it only made sense he would choose Jaskier in return and choose him a thousand times over. That way, they both stayed protected -- safe -- in one another’s embrace.

“You will leave here and you won’t bother either of us again,” Geralt told them, then tacked on as an afterthought, “or my horse. You won’t touch her either. Understood?”

The men bobbed their heads like little toy dolls. 

“You, though,” Geralt turned to the one on his left, who looked to be the oldest of them all, “you will go bring the bard back his coin… along with breakfast. We’ll accept that as an apology on our way out.”

He nodded to the group and sent them on their way. When he was satisfied they’d gone, he’d turn to check on Jaskier only to find the bard watching him through one amused semi-swollen eye. The other was forced shut tight. 

“You’re awake,” said Geralt. He crouched down to help the struggling bard into a sitting position. “How are you feeling?”

“Have you always been able to do that?” Jaskier’s voice had gotten stronger overnight, but sounded worse due to the swelling in his nose and throat. 

Geralt shrugged. “I try not to do it on humans. They don’t take kindly to… well, being coerced. As no one should, really.”

“In this case, darling, I think you made the right decision.”

Geralt helped him to his feet then, once steadied, pulled him close. They stood for a moment, Jaskier’s head tucked under Geralt’s chin, Geralt’s arms wrapped around his waist.

“We need to get going soon, songbird. We’ve overstayed our welcome.”

Jaskier moaned. “I’m already dreading the thought. My head is killing me and my body feels like— like… well, something very heavy, I suppose. My brain isn’t working well enough to make poetic comparisons.”

“Has it ever been?”

The bard attempted to pull away, squawking with displeasure, but Geralt kept him close and chuckled. 

“I jest,” he told Jaskier.

“You better.”

They packed their belongings onto Roach and into her saddlebags, with Jaskier mainly watching and Geralt lifting most of their things. When the older villager came back with a small coin purse and a sack of dried fruits and nuts, the witcher took them without so much of a glance. 

It wasn’t until Geralt loaded Jaskier onto the horse that the bard spoke again.

“I meant what I said last night, you know,” he said, so softly that Geralt almost didn’t realize Jaskier had spoken.

“About?”

“You not being a monster. You not needing to think you are.” 

Geralt lead them out of the stables. No one was on the road out of town, but that didn’t stop him from feeling their eyes upon him as he made his way down the dirt path that would take them out of this hovel. 

“I am only what people make of me,” Geralt said. “No more, no less.”

“Well, I make you to be my lover. I make you to be a kind man with a loving heart — one so loving he’s ready to let the world piss on him if it meant putting the needs of one man above the needs of the many. What do you think of that, hm?”

He looked at Jaskier: his beaten face, his too proud eyes.

“I think… you’re too idealistic.”

Jaskier sighed. “People are always looking for monsters to hunt. They branded you the Butcher of Blaviken for that very reason — they  _ wanted _ a reason to hate you, one more tangible than your blood or hair.”

Geralt tensed at the name. “My eyes then? Are all three of those things not enough?”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse.” Jaskier blew a raspberry. “What I’m saying is: People will always look to make a monster where there isn’t one. To cause trouble when there shouldn’t be — don’t give them a reason to turn the White Wolf into the feral, fanged freak they want him to be. Don’t let them goad you into being what they want, instead of what they need. Nothing’s worth that malice.”

“You are,” Geralt said, before he could stop himself. 

Jaskier looked taken aback, so the witcher continued: “You think so little of yourself that I would not care if they beat you? If they spit on you like they’ve spat on me? I would gladly be the monster they want me to be, a hundred-thousand times over if it means you’d never again be put in harm's way by my name and face.”

“ _ Geralt _ —,”

“No.” There was a finality in his voice. “No I won’t hear of it, Jaskier. I didn’t want to start with you last night because you were injured. But now… You say they want a monster hunt? I will only give them one if they ask for it. And like the beast they want me to be, no man shall come away unscathed if they are between me and my beloved.”

The bard’s voice was small again. “Beloved?”

“Yes.  _ Beloved _ . You know this. Don’t pretend otherwise.” Geralt turned to Jaskier and his heart shattered. In the morning light his face was something not even an artist could capture — too many colors and contusions to make sense of. Impossibly, it made him lookeven younger. “I am yours and you are mine. And I respect your wishes: to not go against humanity so that they will not hate me. But I cannot do that if it means causing you pain. If it means watching you suffer — I  _ will _ not.”

Jaskier stayed silent, which of not for the severity of the moment would have been a wondrous feat all on its own. 

“Oh,  _ Geralt _ , were it not for the fact I’m up here — and for the fact every bone in my body wants to melt when I move — I would kiss you. Romantic  _ fool _ .”

“Your fool,” he parroted, satisfied to watch as much of a smile as Jaskier could muster crinkle across his face.

“Promise me though,” said Jaskier, “promise me that if I keep out of trouble, and if trouble keeps away from  _ me _ , that you’ll try your very best to stay my wolf. That you won’t let them turn you into a beast, no matter how hard they try.”

“Always,” Geralt replied, and found that he meant it. “No matter what monster they try and make me out to be, I will always, first and foremost, be your wolf.”

“Then that will be enough. For now.”

“For now,” the witcher echoed.

From here they would make to Vizima, for a visit to Triss, so that Geralt could ask for a favor in healing Jaskier. He would try his best to keep civil; a regular wolf in sheep’s clothing. He would play their games. He would keep to their social niceties. He would stay his hand and watch his tongue — for Jaskier.

Because no matter what he did, the bard failed to understand, Geralt would always be seen as a monster — by monsters who thought they were anything but. 

Yet, nothing was so bad about being a monster. So long as he was Jaskier’s. 

**Author's Note:**

> Gee, Jo, how come you only name fanfics after 60/70s rock music? Because shut up, that's why.
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr and yell about how book!geraskier is superior @[myrtlewilson](https://myrtlewilson.tumblr.com/)!


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